Ruminations
by baldwide
Summary: Sometimes, we just have to think things through.


I have to kill.

Well, actually, if I'm lucky – a huge if at that – I have to kill.

Or I'll be killed.

I'm okay with death. I always have been. I suppose, that I have always been okay with death. The Muggles, for I can no longer call them my relatives, had always told me that my parents had died in a car crash all those years ago. From that moment, and their continued abusive nature, I was aware that this life had nothing pleasant planned for me. I used to hate that, but as you get older, you're supposed to get wiser, and be better able to take the pain that life throws at you; even if it is shaped as the ham-sized fist of your uncle.

There were so many times that I couldn't see out of both eyes, simply because I didn't move fast enough, or I had asked too many questions. There were times, especially when I was 6, where I nursed my broken arm without the assistance of a doctor, a nurse, or even medicine. That pain made me wish death upon my family. And yet, they were all that I had. All that seemed to accept me, for whatever that was worth. The pain taught me silence. I had accepted my fate. I was the punching bag, the scapegoat, and the disgrace. I was nothing more than a burden, one that was barely worth the so-called "stress" that my Aunt and Uncle had endured because of me.

They had always hated me, though I never truly knew why. I had always been meek, despite showing stellar skills in the classroom setting, and earning accolades from teachers in the county. I had always been respectful, even when in the unfair situations where a bit of anger was justified. I had always helped around the house, for it made me feel as if I was finally worth something. It made me feel as if I had a certain type of value. I had never begged for gifts, or money, nor did I complain about the fact that I had severely outgrown my cupboard beneath the stairs. For so many years, while having the spiders as my companions, I wished for nothing more than being _useful_. I wanted to simply matter to someone.

My Aunt loves the fact that I took many burdens off of her back, from cooking, to cleaning and everything in between. She didn't love _me_, just the convenience of having a "nephew" – though they rarely claimed me as such – do all the chores for her. She had won the unofficial award for "Privet Drive's Most Distinguished Garden" one year from the mere strength of his hands. I had suffered from long hours in the heat, minimal water, and her cool eyes staring me down through the kitchen window. I had never received so much as a thank you. I hadn't been allowed to touch the certificate, or take part in the free dinner that had come with it. No, I had been hidden in his cupboard with his mouth taped shut. Had there been a fire, I doubted that they would've even come back for me.

My uncle hates me. I had come to terms with that fact years ago. A strong memory of me being pushed down the stairs because I was "impeding traffic" taught me to always be aware of my surroundings. The following hospital visits, for internal bleeding no less, were humiliating. Somehow, the Muggles had gotten the hospital staff to believe that I regularly endangered my own life when things didn't go my way. Never once did they think to ask me where the other bruises came from, or how the marks on my arms would probably be a direct fit to the stubby fingers of my Uncle.

My cousin hates me for everything that I was. He hated that I had gotten better grades in school, despite not always trying my best. He hated that he had to share some of his food with me, though not a lot of food, the idea of sharing _anything_ with _anyone_ was appalling to the fat tub of lard. He hated me so much, and his parents did nothing to alleviate the matter. If anything, and if I was being honest with myself, they had only encourage their son to "rough him up a bit".

So yes, I was used to the idea of dying. For so many years, it had been my only wish. For many years, I had dreamed that when I woke up, I would be before my parents – for they were surely better people. They had to be better people, for there was no logical explanation for so many people to be so awful. For so many years, I had dreamt of an empty funeral, no one cared enough for I to attend. I was invisible, good for my various uses, and then annoying to behold at any other time.

From the moment I had understood the very concept of people going to sleep and never waking up, I had wondered when my time would come. A child, with depressing thoughts and a depressing lifestyle. It seemed to me that death would've come as an escape from all that I knew, and all that I had experienced.

But I hadn't died, not yet at least. Fate had made sure of that. When I was begging not to wake up in the morning after a severe beating that made _everything_ hurt, I still had not died. Was I doing something wrong? Was I asking for the wrong thing, at the wrong time? I didn't have anything to live for, but every reason to die.

But now, but now it seemed as if Fate had only kept me alive so that it could kill me when it felt ready to. Was I inconveniencing Fate by wishing death upon myself? Or maybe it was because Fate knew that I would find a reason to continue living.

And I did. Hagrid's day of rescuing me almost made me believe again. Though the Muggles had nearly beaten the hope out of me, my magic was still strong. Magic, that's a wonderful that I had never truly believed in nor understood. Why would you want to deceive someone? Why would a person say one thing, only to do another? The Muggles have taken the enjoyment out of life for me. I hate them for it.

But I made friends. It was difficult at first, everyone seemed to know me and my past. No, not my past with the Muggles, but the fact that I was an orphan. They seemed to praise it, to stare at me in awe as if I were going to do another miracle in front of them. I was the Boy-Who-Lived. I think, humbly of course, that no one else would have handled that attention as well I did. I was just as surprised to find out, as they were at actually meeting me. My friend Ron, tall guy with red hair, was my first friend. I'll never forget that failed spell on the train to Hogwarts. It made me laugh, a feeling that had only been a vague memory.

I'll also never forget the moment that I met Hermione. She seemed smart, and very prepared for a completely new form of living. I would find out later that she was Muggle-Born, which was also the same type of situation that I have lived. I did, slightly and only for a short period of time, become jealous of the fact that she came into the world so very prepared. I felt lost. Here I was trying to find myself in the world, only to be thrust into a new world that I had no idea how to traverse. And I was only 11. Everyone else seemed to have a plan for me, or expect great things of me, and I just wanted to be me – whoever that turned out to be. But meeting new people, and not being punished for it was a great start to something different.

Then I saw Hogwarts for the first time. It was breathtaking. Those tall towers, the battlements, the way the castle itself was seemingly reaching into the sky as if to yank the Moon from its resting place. In the dark of night, it shone as bright as a twinkling star. It was the most beautiful thing in the world to me. It even felt like home to me. I didn't know how much I needed that until later that night when I lay in my own bed, not stuffed inside of a cupboard.

Fast forward through all the years, the classes, the essays, the learned spells, and I thought that I would easily find my niche in life. Everything would've ben normal for me, I would have friends, and I would be good at things that made me happy. I wouldn't be too good, because I didn't want people to dislike me. I had decided to be just good enough, and maybe in that way I would take some of the attention off of me. The problem turned out to be that Fate had long ago decided that I could not have anything remotely close to normal. Fate has already decided that it would push me, and that it would challenge me.

Tom Marvolo Riddle. Lord Voldemort. The murderer of my parents. The reason that everyone knows me name. He still wants me dead. I seem to be an ink stain on an otherwise unblemished résumé of terror. From the moment I knew the truth about the way that my parents died, I had always wondered when or if I would ever meet the person responsible for destroying my future. Since then, I've met him more times than I care to count. And I've come away alive far more times than he could care to count. Because I still lived, despite his return to power, I am a threat. The same world that looked at as if I were a foolish boy, now looks to me to save their collective asses, again. 

The problem lies in the fact that I hadn't been my choice in the beginning. I hadn't even know what was happening at the time. I remember the scream of my mother, the hiss of some unfamiliar words, and finally excruciating pain. I can remember the pain vividly because ever since then, whenever we met one another, I felt that familiar pain. And in the graveyard, when he had openly touched my scar, I could've died right then and there.

I have to kill. Or, I have to be killed.

And for once, it's not even my own choice. That damned prophecy really threw me for a loop. I had no idea how I could take the life of another, let alone the life of a very powerful and experienced wizard. Before, when I had no problem dying, this wouldn't have mattered too much to me. But now, now I had too many reasons to stay alive. And for some reason, one that I'm unaware of, I didn't have a cowardly bone in my body. Maybe it was the Gryffindor in me.

I have friends, who are more like family than anything else. They would do anything for me, and they proved that this past school year by travelling into the Department of Mysteries with me. I have never felt more appreciation for a person, let alone 5 of them, in that very moment.

Luna, blonde, slightly odd, but a steadfast friend. She didn't even know me that well, and still risked life and limb to help me save a man that she didn't even know. She never once doubted my words, and only offered advice on how to actually get to the Ministry of Magic. Though she has always been picked on by so many others, she never once hesitated to be my friend. She _was_ a bit … erm, different. But those differences made her a unique and special friend.

Then there was Neville. A young man with vast potential. He was brave, despite not always being the best with magic. He was a guy that stood up to his friends in his first year, and stood up against the same Deatheater that had tortured his parents into insanity. Many didn't get to know Neville the same way that I have, and it only makes me sad that they are missing out on a great guy, but happy to know that he chose to stand by me in my time of need.

Ginny, the youngest of the Weasleys, was another such friend. Since her first year incident with the basilisk, she had only gotten brighter and braver. Many thought that she was be traumatized, and if she was, she never showed an ounce of hesitation as we battled for our lives. Her fierceness and cleverness within the Ministry firefight was extraordinary. I have always been impressed by her relentless passion and spirit.

Ron was my first bestfriend, and although we have had our differences, he has always come back to support me. Yes, the lifestyle of his family meant that he had very little resources. And yet, the family as a whole did their best to make sure that I felt as if I were a part of their large family. For a family that has too little to give so much to me, is powerful. It brings a tear to my eye at times, just knowing that someone out there truly does care for me, and not because of my name and my fame. There probably aren't aware of how thankful for them I truly am.

Hermione Granger. There is so much that I could say about her. She's a nag, that's for certain. She's also very passionate, and sometimes that passion transcends into things that I'm not necessarily interested in. But there could be no truer friend. She love s me, and she has proven it by never once giving up on me. Despite telling me that Sirius could not have possibly been captured by Voldemort, and that it was nothing more than an elaborate trap. Despite me brushing her off again, and not truly listening to her pleas, I had left and she had followed. I'm not sure who I would be without her influence and guidance. She keeps me sane. She's like the rational side to my irrational brain. A part of me that I was missing, but never truly understood.

And now, in the face of all that I've been through, I see what I mean to my friends. I see that they love me, and that they care for me greatly. I see that I have friends that will always be there for me. The very least that I can do is try. If I failed, would Voldemort ever be stopped? Would anyone ever be able to oppose the awful terrors that he has in store for the populace.

For so long, I had been ready to die. And now, I had the choice of killing and being killed. When my life didn't matter to me, it couldn't be taken. Now that I have a semblance of happiness, despite losing Sirius, my life is constantly in jeopardy. Not only mine, though, because that would be too simple. The maniac that calls himself Voldemort is also targeting my friends, and their loved ones. He's targeting innocents left and right without remorse.

I have to kill or be killed.

I don't want to die anymore, but would killing someone, even if it is Voldemort, make me the same type of person as he is? I hope not. I am not targeting him for the dozens he's killed, or the hundreds that have died as result of his actions. No, this would not be for revenge. Instead, I would be killing him for the lives that had not yet been lost, but that were threatened all the same.

I have to kill or be killed.

What if I do die though? I mean, it _is_ Voldemort. He isn't feared just for his name. His deeds, skills, accomplishments, and ruthlessness has allowed him to be a nearly unbeatable foe. Indeed, he and Dumbledore had fought to a draw. Though I know why Dumbledore hadn't sought to defeat him at the time, it was nevertheless impressive. That was my task; to kill the man that could blow for blow with the most powerful wizard alive. What if I failed? I had no problem sacrificing myself for the greater, or sacrificing myself so that others may live. I had come to terms with that when I had proceeded into the Chamber of Secrets to do battle against an enormous snake for the life of one girl. Now that the lives of millions were involved, I had no problem doing what was necessary.

Death still didn't scare me. The problem was, I had seen who Voldemort had become, and I had seen some of his victims. If I killed him, would that create a circle of occurrences that would continue to foster Dark Lords? Would I become a Dark wizard, one who feels nothing for the lives of others?

That is what scares me, becoming something that I have been destined to do battle against. I don't fear the man behind the evil, instead, I fear the evil itself. And if I sacrifice a part of me to take out the monstrosity, how could I live with myself.

"I have to kill or be killed." I whispered to the empty room. It was had become sort of a mantra to me. It had, honestly, been the sole reason for me to even be alive now.

I have to kill or be killed. I just hope it's all worth it.


End file.
